


The Words He Cannot Say

by VermillionChameleon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arthurian AU, Didn't want to clutter things, Honestly Not Sure Where This Is Going, How can you have a fantasy au for a fantasy story?, Look there's a castle and people have swords, Multi, Sometimes they kiss, Way more relationships going on then are listed up there, What more do you want to know?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-25 01:19:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VermillionChameleon/pseuds/VermillionChameleon
Summary: Forced to leave his homeland, Harry journeys to the grand citadel of Eiselgot. He hopes that there is a future for him as a knight and warrior of the kingdom, a place where he might achieve the glory and belonging that has always been denied to him. Soon, however, the intricacies of court politics prove more than he bargained for and the secrets that drove him from his home are just as dangerous in his new life, and just as difficult to keep.





	1. Journey's End

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear to anyone, I don't have much experience writing fanfiction. I also don't really know what I'm doing. So, this unedited mess of a writing exercise will probably not be anybody's masterpiece. Just a word of warning. On the other hand, some of the scenery is pretty.

 

Eiselgot might be the finest city in the known world – Harry was yet to find out for sure – but it was most inconveniently situated. No doubt the mountains that pierced the sky to the South-East and the forest that wrapped around in both the North and South provided excellent defence against anyone who would dare threaten her walls but they made it hard going for the common traveller who just wanted to sleep in a real bed for the first time in weeks. It had been a long journey from Harry’s homeland and the little town now seemed as faded and unreal as a dream. All he wanted was to arrive, to finally be somewhere that he was not just passing through. Eiselgot was on the horizon, if only he could find his way through these damnable woods.

   The sunken road was rough underfoot and the high banks on either side made Harry feel as though he were being buried alive. He was not of the temperament to see the appeal of the scattered primroses or the way the sunlight dappled through the leaves above. He had been born in a place of high skies and sweeping horizons. This close, damp atmosphere oppressed his spirits. He was uneasy.

  It was past noon and stickily hot in the late spring sun when Harry heard shouts from up ahead. He drew his sword – an ancient notched affair better for butchering than fencing – and hurried forward, half-creeping on his toes. If there was one thing Harry knew how to do it was be silent. His footsteps were soundless as he darted forward and around the curve of the road.

 A young man was fighting, his sword flashing a silver arc in the air, hopelessly outnumbered by the men around him. Bandits – he had been warned about them. It took Harry all of a moment to make his decision. He lowered his eyes, safe in the knowledge that they were all too preoccupied to have noticed him, and moved his lips in the shape of the learned liturgy. There was a fearful cracking from above and a branch split from its trunk, plummeting down to catch one of the bandits a glancing blow on the skull. He went down like a sack of potatoes.

 Harry seized the opportunity, whirling into the fray. His sword slashed and spun with more enthusiasm than skill. Recovering himself in the instant of confusion Harry had stolen for him, the young man returned eagerly to the fight. The bandits had evidently not counted on two opponents. Before Harry had even had the chance to maim one, they turned heel and fled.

“Bloody hell,” the young man wiped his brow on the tattered velvet sleeve of his jacket, “that was a stroke of luck. If it weren’t for that branch falling when it did, and you showing up like that, I’d be skewered by now.”

“The gods must be on your side,” Harry agreed, refraining from mentioning any tricks with magic spells.

The young man scrubbed at his face once more and turned to his horse, soothing the animal with long strokes and mumbling nonsense. Harry took a good look at him. For all his lanky frame and ungainly fighting style, it was evident from the cut of his clothes that this was a nobleman. He wore blue velvet and there were precious stones set in the pommel of his sword. His skin was almost translucent in its pallor, scattered over with liberal spray of freckles and contrasting sharply with his vivid orange hair.

When he turned away from his horse again, he grinned. “You’d better not tell anyone about this in Eiselgot. Can you believe it? On my way to train for a knight and I nearly get slaughtered by bandits.”

“You’re headed for a knighthood too?” Harry felt the relief settle around him like snow. “I’ve been trying to get to Eiselgot for days now but I swear these woods are a maze.”

“The road curves all over the place,” the nobleman agreed, “but I reckon I know the way from here. We’ll stick together – I already owe you my life.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, it might be nothing to you but I’m rather fond of it.” Harry rather liked the way the young man smiled, sheepish but sincere. “I’m Ronald, by the way. Sir Ronald Weasley of Burrodown. Ron, to people who rescue me from danger.”

“Harry.” Harry shook the proffered hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Just Harry?” Ron looked interested. “Fair enough. Do you want to stick your bag up on Bessie? The old girl can carry it better than we can, and we might as well walk the rest of the way.”

Harry wanted nothing more than to take the weight of his bag off his shoulders so he helped Ron strap it down to Bessie’s saddle and fell into step beside him, trying to focus on his new ally rather than the unpleasant looming banks of the sunken road.

“You ever been to Eiselgot before?” Ron asked.

“Never,” Harry admitted. “I’ve only heard the stories. Have you?”

“Only once, when I was younger, but I’ve got family there. Two of my brothers are Knights of Eiselgot.” His voice was tinged with pride. “They serve the Lady Mcgonagall.”

“Is that what you’re hoping for?”

Ron’s ears turned red. “Well, you know how it is. I’ll be willing to serve anyone for the sake of Eiselgot. Still, it would be nice to follow the family tradition. The rest of my brothers didn’t make it in. Well, Percival didn’t apply but the twins weren’t considered good enough. I’m not sure they mind, to be honest. They mostly just hang around in Eiselgot now, living off family money. Do you have siblings?”

“None.”

“You’re lucky,” Ron said fervently.

They rounded another turn in the road and suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the walls of Eiselgot rose up before them. Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest. After all these years, here he was. That terracotta stone, the open gates, the glimpses of what lay beyond…

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Ron grinned at him. “Come on. You’ll never see anything like it.”

And so it was that Harry entered Eiselgot for the first time.

Beyond the gates lay a market square, immediate for the convenience of those bringing goods from outside the city. It was alive with noise: the shouts of vendors; the laughter of children; the clatter of carts, of knives, of wood against wood. People thronged the space, so many of them that it seemed like a puzzle, the space between each person becoming, with a little trick of the eyes, another person in themselves. Animals scattered underfoot: a mongrel pup, a startled chicken, a flea-bitten cat. The smell hit the nose like a wall: dung, spices, sweat, fresh bread, the sweet and ugly odour of lives being lived. Harry stopped short and drank it in.

  Noble women in jewel-like gowns moved through the crowds with stately grace, selecting fine sugar-twists of pastry and tiny cones of spices. Servants in their household colours jostled and barged, bearing baskets under their arms stuffed with the day’s produce. Children played and fought, tugged skirts and begged for treats. Harry watched a weather-beaten farmer haggle a sly-eyed merchant for a cask of oranges. He saw a child pocket a handful of toffee pieces when no one was looking.

  And even if he could tear his eyes away from the spectacle of city life, there was no relief for the towers of Eiselgot rose overhead, crowding out the sky with turrets and crenulations and the dull blue-grey of their famous tiled roofs. Banners in the colours of the king flew from every available surface. Architecture jostled for position, every style from the last few centuries demanding to be seen.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Ron said.

Harry took a deep breath. “The stories don’t do it justice.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “They say you get used to it but I reckon it’s always something to see.”

“How could anyone get used to this?”

Ron smiled a little crookedly. “Listen, Harry…have you got lodgings?”

Harry hesitated. “Not yet. I’ll ask around. There’s bound to be an inn somewhere for the time being.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at him for a moment before seeming to make up his mind. “My family keeps a house here. That’s where I’ll be staying, with my brothers. Join us. I mean, for a while, if you want.”

“I don’t want to get in your way.”

“No, but…I mean, it’s the least I can do after you saved my life. There’ll be bedbugs in an inn. Not if you don’t want to, of course,” Ron added hastily.

Harry was not in the habit of accepting favours. It had never served him well to become too close to people, not with all the secrets he had to keep. But, then again, hadn’t that been the point of coming to Eiselgot? To find a place for himself despite the things he kept hidden? Besides, Ron’s earnest expression was hard to refuse.

“I’d like that,” Harry said.

Ron’s freckled face split into a wide grin. “Brilliant. It should be this way.”

 

It was not that way. Harry received an unexpected tour of the city before they finally fetched up outside the large, pleasant-looking building that was the town residence of the Weasley family. Ron was received immediately by a servant dressed in Weasley blue who took Bessie away from him and ushered the young master into his home.

“Who’s this? That’s never our Ronnie!” A long-limbed young man came rushing down the stairs. “Look how tall you’ve gotten!”

“Lay off, Freddy!” Ron said gruffly, ducking away from his brother’s enthusiastic embrace. “It’s not been that long.”

“And who’s this? You picked up a stray?”

“This is Harry,” Ron said hastily. “He was…we fought some bandits together, on the road. I said he could stay for a while. Harry, this is my brother Frederick.”

Sir Frederick Weasley looked Harry up and down before nodding approvingly. “Welcome to our home, Harry. Glad to see somebody’s been looking after our baby brother.”

“Who’s been looking after the baby?” Another man appeared out of a doorway. “Well, if it isn’t little Ronnie!”

“George,” Ron sounded exasperated, “I’m not little.”

“Ronnie brought a friend,” Frederick explained. “Apparently he fights bandits.”

“Does he?” George grinned at Harry. “Well, clearly he’s a man to be reckoned with. Where’s old Charlie?”

“Still at the castle.” Frederick gestured vaguely. “You two want to come inside? We’ve got a cask of mead ready for just such an occasion.”

Harry allowed himself to be swept away by the easy enthusiasm of the Weasley brothers. Sir Frederick and Sir George were built to a different scale than Ron, with broad shoulders and bulky frames, but they shared the same near-translucent skin and honey-coloured freckles. They wore their fiery hair to their shoulders in the latest style.

“Trying out for a knight, Harry?” George asked cheerfully, ushering him into a comfortable room and pushing him down into a chair.

“Yes,” Harry managed, trying to keep up with proceedings. “As soon as possible.”

“Good for you. Fred and I both got turned away, of course, but that’s hardly surprising.”

“Hearts weren’t in it,” Frederick agreed. “Only wanted to be there to get closer to Lady Angelina.”

“Who’s Lady Angelina?” Harry asked, curiously.

“One of the finest knights to serve the Rosier family.” George pressed a cup of mead into Harry’s unresisting hand. “And one of the fairest.”

“Her beauty is beyond compare,” Frederick sighed, clasping a hand to his heart. “The torment I have suffered trying to earn the privilege of her gaze!”

Ron snorted. “As if Lady Angelina couldn’t have anyone she wanted! Why should she bother with a nobody fourth son like you?”

“Well, that doesn’t bode well for you, brother dearest,” George said sweetly, “seeing as you are a fifth son and even more of a nobody than I could manage to be if I tried.”

“The families,” Harry said quickly, seeing Ron’s face get worryingly red. “The six, I mean, who serve King Cornelius. Your family has close ties to the Mcgonagall line?”

Frederick nodded, diverted momentarily from teasing his brother. “Lady Minerva has led the family for decades now but the family ties go back further. Our eldest brother leads her knights currently. That’s Bill, of course. Or Sir William Wolfsbane, as he keeps on reminding us.”

Harry choked on his mead. “Sir William Wolfsbane is your _brother_?”

George nodded ruefully. “Hard to believe when you’ve only met Ronald, isn’t it?”

Harry’s head was reeling. He’d heard the stories – _everybody_ had heard the stories – about the young knight who had swept to glory almost overnight. The kingdom was full of it: defiant stands, daring tactics, rumours that could not possibly be true, and the one story that everybody was convinced was. The story of William Wolfsbane and the wolf itself.

“Not that the other families aren’t good enough in their way,” Frederick continued as though such a prestigious connection was of no importance. “Lord Diggory is a decent chap, though his son’s a bit too righteous for my taste, and the Rosier family are as loyal as can be. Then there’s the Macmillans – they’re going through a rough patch, if rumours are to be believed but of course, dear Harry, we would never listen to such malicious gossip,” Frederick’s eyes twinkled delightfully, “especially not when it comes from such disreputable sources. Oh, and then there’s the Bones. I don’t know who you’ve set your heart on but any of them will do if it gets you into the Knights of Eiselgot.”

“What about the sixth one?” Harry frowned at him. “You missed one out.”

George cleared his throat. “Our family are…not on good terms with Lord Malfoy and his lot.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“There’s been a lot of blood spilt,” Ron mumbled. “It’s…complicated.”

“I won’t pry,” Harry said, wanting nothing more than to do exactly that.

“It’s just that –”

But Harry never got to find out what it was for, at that moment, the door burst open and in strode a man clearly designed to derail any conversation. He was big and broad-shouldered, with muscles enough to snap Harry’s spine like a twig if he had a mind to. His garish hair was cropped short, his teeth crooked, his voice a bellow, but the most noticeable thing about him were the shiny pink ropes of scars that seemed to wind their way about him like ribbons.

“Ronald!” the man roared, seizing Ron and thumping him enthusiastically on the back. “Good to see you! We were expecting you yesterday!”

“He got delayed by bandits,” Frederick said snidely. “Had to be rescued by his new best friend.”

“It’s not that I had to be rescued,” Ron protested, but the newcomer had already turned his attention to Harry.

“You saved our Ron? Brilliant!” He shook Harry’s hand vigorously, his grip all but crushing Harry’s bones to sand. “You’ll be staying for dinner then, eh?”

“He’ll be staying a while, apparently. Ron’s offered him a room.”

“Wonderful!” The man looked genuinely delighted. “The more the merrier!”

“Harry, this is my brother Charlie. Um…”

“Harry, is it?” Charlie grinned at him, displaying a chipped tooth at a rakish angle. “Sir Charles Dragonheart, at your service.”

“It’s an honour to meet you, sir,” Harry said firmly.

“Charlie’s out of action for injuries,” George explained, lounging in his chair. “Apparently, he’s decided to spend that time showing off.”

Charlie looked wounded. “Showing off? I’m helping instruct the young soldiers!”

“And how many times do you stop helping to regale them with stories about monsters and dragons?” George teased. “Oh, sit down and stop making a scene, won’t you? Grab some mead, there’s a chap.”

Charlie flung himself into a chair – he seemed incapable of doing anything without excessive amounts of energy – and poured himself a large measure of mead.

“Looking good for your training, Ron. The armies are depleted, they need good men. Everybody’s going to be watching out for you.”

Ron looked a little pale and could only mumble a response.

“Harry’s going out for a knight as well,” George informed his brother.

“Is he?” Charlie looked pleased. “What family are you from, Harry?

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I’m from nowhere,” Harry said eventually.

“Ah, right.” Charlie seemed impervious to awkwardness. “You’ll be training with the commoners then. You’ll have a harder time becoming a knight but they’ll make an excellent warrior out of you. Lord Wood can be intense but he’s a fine teacher, and an excellent swordsman.”

“You’ll like him,” Frederick promised. “We do, and our standards are high.”

“You might feel it’s harsh now,” George added, “but just you give it a few days and you’ll be rejoicing that you’re not training with the noblemen. Swordmaster Black is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Old Regulus.” Frederick raised his glass in a toast. “He beat us black and blue.”

Ron looked faintly ill. “He can’t be so bad, surely.”

“He’s alright so long as you don’t cross him,” Charlie said reassuringly. “But he’s a stickler for the rules, and his standards are high. It takes a lot to impress him.”

“Can you imagine, Fred?” George said, with mock horror. “Two more knights in our house? We’ll be relegated to the stables.”

“Don’t be too enthusiastic to ascend, Harry,” Frederick teased. “We could use another wastrel about the place.”

Harry smiled and let the conversation pass him by. The easy teasing of the Weasley brothers and the total lack of hesitation in their welcome to him made something odd happen inside his heart. It had been such a long time since anybody had looked at him with something other than suspicion or mistrust. He was happier than he had been in years. If only it might last.

 

The day wore on, through a large dinner and a fog of alcohol until Harry was shown to a bedchamber finer than any he had ever seen. He was too tired to appreciate it, falling at once into bed and feeling exhaustion roll over him in waves. Beneath the contentment, unease still twitched her ever-wriggling tail. All of this belonging, this promise of a future, depended on the secret that would be so hard to keep. He could never forget that. No matter how welcome they made him feel, he could never drop his guard. He could never forget his place.

  Still, there is a time for worrying and a time for gladness. Harry smiled to himself as he looked over at the candle. With a flick of his fingers, he doused the room in darkness and slept like the dead.

 


	2. Lord Wood Bids The Recruits To Dance

The cold light of dawn washed over the training field and did little to alleviate the tiredness weighing down on Harry’s eyes. Somewhere out of sight, beyond a low rise, the noblemen would be waiting to begin in their fine clothes and well-fitting boots. On their dusty patch of land, the commoners with grand ambitions rubbed bleary eyes and shuffled their feet, every one of them wishing they had chosen some other path in life.

“You come far?” a young man asked, stifling a yawn. He had a pleasant face, dark as the deep earth with wide guileless eyes.

“From Godrian,” Harry replied. “You?”

“From the mountains, little village called Isling. My name’s Dean, by the way.”

“Harry.”

They shook.

“This is Seamus. Met him on my way over here.” Dean gestured vaguely to a skinny young man beside him, whose eyes were half-closed and shoulders slouched. “Pretty sure he’s asleep standing up.”

Harry nodded understandingly. “I’m tempted to do the same.”

“We must be mad, eh?”

“Crazy.”

A man strode across the field towards them, decked out in the gold and purple regalia of the king. Despite the early hour, his brown eyes were bright and full of energy. Harry knew the moment he saw him that this was the sort of person who thought long runs through the cold and mud were _fun_.

“Right then!” The man clapped his hands together. “I am Lord Wood, Knight of Eiselgot, and assigned to oversee your training! I can tell from looking that most of you have no idea what you’re doing so we’re going to start with the basics! I want three laps around this field! Go!”

Harry groaned but set off, feet pounding a dull rhythm that ached his sleepy head. Dean fell into step beside him, tugging Seamus along as the other man slowly regained consciousness. Halfway through their first lap, he seemed to realise what was going on.

“Oh, we’re running?”

“Three laps.”

“Must we?”

“Apparently.”

“Ugh.”

Wood kept that at it all morning, his cheerfulness never wavering even as the spirits of his recruits sank lower and lower. They ran laps. They jumped up and down. They hefted logs on their shoulders and ran some more. Harry had never been more grateful for the years of his childhood spent working in the fields. Some of the more delicate future-soldiers found the day’s ordeal far worse.

 Only at noon did Lord Wood allow them to rest. They collapsed onto the ground, collecting in groups of exhausted youths. An easy camaraderie had grown up between them, brought on by shared misery and regret. Seamus promptly lay his head down on Dean’s lap and went straight back to sleep.

“He can do that _anywhere_ ,” Dean said, half-admiringly. “He can even do it on demand. It’s unnatural.”

“Wish I could,” grumbled a skinny brown-skinned girl who had identified herself as Parvati. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I’m lodging above an inn and I swear they didn’t stop singing till the sun rose.”

“You’d think they’d at least provide barracks,” Dean agreed. “Seamus and I found a place in the lower town but the rent is killing us and our neighbours have a baby. Well, I assume it’s a baby. I’m sure the landlady wouldn’t let them keep a fiend from the underworld there. That must be against the rules.”

Parvati laughed. “What about you, Harry? Where are you staying?”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m staying with a family. I made a friend on the road. His family have a house here.”

“Lucky you,” Parvati sighed. “Mind if I join you? I’ll curl up at the foot of your bed like a cat.”

Dean laughed. Harry smiled tensely, trying to remember how people talked to their peers. It had been so long since he had been friendly with anyone that he had forgotten how to hold a conversation.

“Alright, you good-for-nothings!” Lord Wood’s happy tones rose above their heads. “On your feet! Look lively!”

With much grumbled complaining, they scrambled upright. Lord Wood strolled amongst them, handing out lengths of wood.

“You’re not to be trusted with swords yet. We don’t want anybody losing a head unexpectedly. So, sticks it is for you. Now, I want you to follow me. I’m going to show you the basic moves.”

Formed into rough lines, the recruits did their best to follow Lord Wood’s actions. Harry’s brow furrowed in concentration. What Lord Wood made look effortless, even graceful, seemed to jar unnaturally in Harry’s limbs. He fought to follow the patterns of Lord Wood’s stick with his own, having to catch himself a few times before he fell. He was not the only one struggling. Seamus seemed to have all the natural grace of a wounded duck.

“You!” Lord Wood strode down the lines. “What’s your name? Yes, you, who couldn’t be bothered to brush his hair this morning!”

“Um…Harry, my lord.”

“Harry what?”

“Potter, my lord. Harry Potter.”

“Potter, eh? Your family works clay?”

“Not anymore, my lord. They’re farmers.”

“Well, that explains it then. You’re terrible.” Harry winced at his bluntness but Lord Wood wasn’t having any of it. “Step with me. No, look, bring the stick around like _this_ and then like _this_ …”

Harry fumbled the move and Lord Wood nodded in satisfaction, as if Harry’s failure in front of everyone was exactly what he had wanted.

“You’re strong,” Lord Wood announced, tapping Harry’s muscular shoulder lightly with his stick, “but strong isn’t good enough. You have no grace, no flow. Why aren’t you moving your feet?”

“Um…I don’t know, my lord.” Harry’s face was red.

“You have to _move_. This isn’t about bashing someone over the head. Strength, speed, all of that is secondary to precision, and precision comes with grace of movement. You there – what’s your name?”

Parvati looked terrified. “Parvati, my lord! Patil, my lord!”

“Harry, watch Parvati. The move I just showed you, Parvati.”

A little nervously, Parvati performed the sequence before the eyes of the whole field. It was clumsy but it was better than what Harry had achieved. Lord Wood nodded approvingly.

“You see, Harry? That’s what you need. Did you watch her feet? You have more strength in one hand than she does in her entire body but she could still beat you in a fight, just because she knows how to move. Where did you learn to do that with your feet, Parvati?”

“Um…dancing lessons, my lord.” Parvati ducked her head.

“Dancing lessons,” Lord Wood repeated, with fierce intensity. “She got more warrior training out of dancing lessons than you ever did hauling hay bales in a field or whatever it was you did, Harry. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Harry managed to choke out. Humiliation coiled sickeningly in his stomach.

“And he’s not the only one!” Lord Wood raised his voice to a shout. “I can see four or five others of you who came here thinking your muscles were going to be enough but you move as slow as a tree grows! Speed, direction, balance, precision. Those are all more important to a warrior than strength, and far harder to learn. Parvati, I want you to show this man here how to move those great clumping feet of his. If he stays still much longer, he’ll take root.”

“Yes, my lord!” Parvati turned frantic eyes to Harry, who raised his eyebrows just a fraction.

“Get to it!”

Lord Wood set off down the lines, finding other people to pick on, and Parvati’s look of terrified servility became one of apology.

“Sorry. That was mean of him.”

“It was true,” Harry said, shoving the sickness of shame to the back of his mind. “Show me how you did that?”

Parvati hesitated, then set the stick on the ground. “Watch this and try to follow me.”

She performed a careful turn, her feet crisscrossing delicately one over the other. Harry glared at them as they moved. When he tried to do the same, his ankles caught around one another and he stumbled. Parvati laughed but not unkindly.

“No, no, here!” She stepped closer to him, placing one of his hands firmly on her narrow hip and taking the other in hers. “You’ve never been to a dance before?”

“I’m not really one for dancing.”

“Well, just follow me. You need to be lighter. Look,” Parvati stepped back, pulling him towards her, and began to turn again, “one, two, three, one two, three. No, don’t change the pattern. Bring your heel round first. That’s it. Bring your stomach in. Stand up tall. Keep your hips straight. That’s better. You should be turning from the heart, your feet are just staying under you.”

“I think I’m getting it.” Harry managed a full turn without trampling on either of their feet. “It’s so precarious, though. Anyone could push me over.”

“So try to push me over.”

“What?”

Parvati grinned, dark eyes sparkling. “Go on. Just you try.”

Figuring that he might as well do as she asked, Harry shoved Parvati backwards. She almost stumbled, but her feet moved quickly backwards, stepping one over the other, until all he had succeeded in doing was making her retreat several places. She hadn’t even bent, let alone fallen.

“You see?” she smiled smugly. “You have to keep your feet under you. Quick and light.”

“Dancing lessons,” Harry sighed, resigning himself to his fate. “And here I thought I was going to be a soldier.”

Parvati shrugged, stepping back into his arms. “At least this’ll come in handy when you want to impress a lady. No, left, you go left first. One, two, three – same again now, Harry.”

 

By the time Lord Wood released them that evening, Harry was dizzy from concentration. There were dark circles under Parvati’s eyes and Dean looked as though he might drop down dead at any moment. Only Seamus seemed to have recovered, grinning at all and sundry as they left the field.

“Let’s get a drink,” Dean groaned. “I could do with a bucket of ale right now.”

“The inn I’m staying at is decent,” Parvati offered. “Reasonable prices, limited blood, and they don’t start singing the really maudlin songs till later in the night.”

“Perfect!” Harry said wholeheartedly. “Lead on, my lady!”

Parvati led them down the winding streets of the upper town until they reached a pleasant-looking inn bearing the sign of _The Fox and Lady_. The barkeeper greeted Parvati with a smile, stepping out into the room to hug her.

“Why, if it isn’t the little knight! I’ve been telling everybody we’ve got one of you lot staying with us, you know?” she beamed at Parvati, holding her out at arms’ length. “Oh dear, you do look tired. And your friends too! A pint for each of you?”

“Yes, please, Mrs Rosmerta,” Parvati said gratefully. “The best you’ve got!”

Mrs Shelts bustled off to pour their drinks whilst Parvati guided them into a table in the corner, safely away from the group of old men who were already starting to reach the sing-song stage of drunkenness. Seamus raised an eyebrow at Parvati, who rolled her eyes.

“She’s a nice sort. She keeps the rent low for me. She really does some pleased to have one of our lot staying here.”

“More fool her.” Dean stretched out his limbs, joints crackling. “Lord Wood’s a slave-driver, isn’t he?”

“I liked him,” Parvati shrugged.

“Of course you did, he showered you with compliments.”

“He did not!”

“Dance lessons,” Seamus teased. “Bless your little heart.”

“I’ll slit you from top to toe and wear your skin as a suit,” Parvati hissed, baring her teeth.

Seamus sat back hurriedly. “Bless your ferocious heart, I meant. Your terrifying heart. Your fearsome heart and extremely skilled dancing feet.”

“Better,” Parvati grinned at him.

Mrs Rosmerta set down their drinks in front of them, beaming rosily all around. “Anything else I can get for you, dears, you just come over and ask.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Harry said.

“Oh, I’m no lady, love!” Mrs Rosmerta pinked with pleasure. “Just a plain old Mrs.”

As she hurried away, Seamus made a kissing face at Harry. “Sucking up to the landlady, are you? My lady, oh my lady. You are gallant, aren’t you?”

Harry’s face flushed. He wasn’t sure how to explain that he had been raised to address every unknown woman as “my lady”, on the assumption that one way or another they probably outranked him. Luckily, he was spared that ordeal.

“Oh, lay off him, he’s got the right idea,” Dean said approvingly. “Chivalry and all that. No harm in a bit of respect.”

“Well then, my lord,” Seamus said mockingly, “would you do me the honour of laying down a little wager?”

“What wager would that be then,” Dean demanded, “seeing as you’re broke?”

“I am not!”

The conversation flourished and lulled as the alcohol in front of them decreased. The old men on the other side of the inn found their note and began a long series of endless ballads. Harry relaxed a little, joining in the laughter, remembering in flashes how this sort of interaction was supposed to go. He even managed to tease Parvati a little, forgetting the deferential nature that had been so drilled into him. By the time they waved Parvati off to bed and staggered out into the night-time streets, Harry felt as at home with his new friends as he ever had done back in Godrian.

“We shall be the greatest warriors this world has ever seen!” Seamus roared to the sky.

“Hush, sssh,” Dean stumbled against him. “People are sleeping!”

“The greatest!” Seamus repeated, slurring slightly. “Sir…Sir Dean! Known for his many great deeds of – of – of greatness! And Sir Seamus – seducer of manymany damsels –”

“You couldn’t seduce any damsels,” Harry protested.

“But I will! I will!” Seamus waved his arms vaguely in the air. “I shall be known for – known for – for the –”

His rambling was cut off as somebody barged past them, running at full tilt down the street.

“Hey!” Seamus complained. “I was talking!”

“Stop him!” a voice roared behind him. “Stop that man!”

Responding on instinct, Harry leapt after the assailant. Even drunk, he moved faster than this man. He tackled him to the street, the two of them crashing against the cobbles. The man struggled against him, wriggling like a fish on a line, as Harry held him pinned against the ground. The man’s pursuers caught up with him, the clanking of chainmail betraying them as city guards.

“Well done,” one of them said, a touch breathlessly. “Been chasing this reprobate all round town.”

“Please!” the man moaned. “Please, I didn’t do anything! Please!”

Feeling suddenly, unwelcomely sober, Harry let his captive up. The man struggled to his knees as one guard seized him by the wrists, clapping chains around them.

“Right then,” the guard declared. “That’s you done. You can expect the axe in the morning.”

“Please!” the man begged. “I’ll leave the city! I’ll trouble no one! Please!”

“Shut it!” The guard hauled him to his feet. “The law is the law.”

“What did he do?” Harry asked numbly, accepting the other guard’s hand to clamber to his feet.

The guard spat on the ground. “Sorcery.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. “He’s a sorcerer?”

“Dunno about that. He was caught practicing magic though, wasn’t he? King Cornelius’ll have his head for that.”

“It was just a charm! A simple charm!” The man trembled as the guard dragged him along. “I beg of you! I have a child!”

“You’d better hope he doesn’t demand the child as well,” the guard said roughly. “Pick your feet up!”

“Thanks for your help.” The guard clasped Harry’s hand in his. “We’re in your debt.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. “Yeah, good luck with him.”

The criminal turned his head back to look at Harry as he was dragged away. The whites of his rolling eyes gleamed in the night. Harry felt cold, clammy as though he’d just risen from a fever. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even as Dean bumped against his shoulder and slurred something about the lateness of the hour.

_I’m sorry,_ Harry thought, willed the man to understand. _I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

“Harry?” Seamus tugged vaguely at his elbow. “Sleep. Sleep is calling.”

“Right.” Harry finally tore his eyes away. “To bed. To sleep.”

But try as he might, he couldn’t recapture the easy happiness of the evening. Horror had taken up root somewhere deep inside his bones. The man had a child. The man would die tomorrow. If he had known, he might have done something different. He might have helped him. Or he might have been a coward and let it happen anyway.

  Dead for the crime of sorcery. Harry felt it deep inside, that reservoir of fire that waited on his command. _Sorcery._ It seemed there was no forgetting and no escape.


	3. St Mariam's Day

“You’re so lucky not to have Swordmaster Black,” Ron groaned, massaging a purple bruise swelling on his shin. “The man’s insane.”

Harry made a sympathetic noise and didn’t disagree. He had caught a glimpse of Regulus Black, the Swordmaster of Eiselgot, only once and the wild-haired figure in the black, star-emblazoned uniform of his house had seemed to carry about him the air of a fanatic.

“What’s Lord Wood like?” Ron asked. “Decent?”

Harry agreed that he was. In truth, as the days of their training had passed, he’d grown to respect Lord Wood more and more. The trainer was never shy to praise what was worthy of it and so, the better they got, the kinder he became. Harry was progressing rapidly, mastering the latest movements with ease. His footwork barely faltered now and Lord Wood had even had an approving comment for his efforts earlier that day.

“We’re due to start sparring soon,” Harry added. “And from then, it’s on to horses.”

“Jousting,” Ron shuddered. “I’m dreading it.”

“Is it so bad?”

“Horses are bad enough at the best of times but being knocked off one with a massive pole?”

Harry laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of horses.”

“I’m not afraid of them!” Ron said indignantly. “I just don’t like them very much!”

“You boys got something important going on?” Frederick strolled into the room, flinging his cloak dramatically over a wooden chair.

“Would it make any difference if we did?” Ron grumbled.

“None at all. There’s a feast at the castle tonight, in honour of St Mariam’s Day. Do you want to come?”

“Really?” Ron sat up straight. “To a feast?”

“If you like,” Frederick said magnanimously. “Just try not to embarrass us. You too, Harry.”

“I’d better not,” Harry said quickly. “I’m not really cut out for it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not difficult. You can borrow some clothes if you don’t have anything suitable. You’re about our size.”

Harry looked quickly at Ron, who shrugged. “Might as well. The food’ll be good.”

It would also be politic, though Harry would have felt crass pointing it out. As somebody with no name and no connections despite his loose friendship with the Weasley brothers, he would need to make himself known in higher circles if he was ever to expect something more from life than the lot of a common soldier. An introduction like this was too valuable an opportunity to waste, even if the thought of it made his stomach churn.

“Alright,” Harry agreed. “Thank you. But I really will have to borrow some clothes. I can’t enter the castle looking like this.”

 

The Feast of St Mariam was of no consequence to the majority of the population. It was just another in the near-endless string of feast days, of which only a few were recognised. King Cornelius, however, never missed an opportunity for a celebration and St Mariam’s Day was honoured with a party to which all the nobility of Eiselgot were invited. Though the city lay quiet that evening, the castle itself was aglow with light and vigour.

  The castle gates loomed overheard as Harry advanced, grateful for the shelter provided by the Weasleys. He fought the temptation to tug at his clothes, which hung just a little too large. In front of them, a small party were hurrying along, loud with laughter. Harry gritted his teeth. All he had to do was be charming and polite. Anyone could manage that.

  They followed the flow of people up the sweeping stone staircase and at last to the castle’s hall. It was astir with colour, the bright coats and gowns of the nobility looking like a bed of flowers against the golden glow of the torches. A motley group played music from the corner and several young women had already begun a dance. Light flashed off jewels, throwing glancing shapes against the intricate carvings that lined the walls. Some daring servant had set tiny candles high up in the ribbed vault of the ceiling so that it shone like stars at night.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?” Charlie clapped Harry robustly on the back. “You get used to it.”

“Never,” Harry said fervently. “I could never get used to this.”

But the Weasleys had already moved on, even Ron more accustomed to such splendour than Harry. He followed them in a daze across the floor, weaving in and out of gathered groups, until they reached a small collective gathered around a low table.

“My lady,” Charlie stepped forward, bowing low. “May I present to you my brothers?”

From the centre of the group, a woman raised her head. Her iron-grey hair was coiled tightly about her head and her steely eyes pierced like daggers but the hard lines around her mouth softened when she saw who approached.

“Sir Charles,” she extended her hand. “Always a pleasure to meet another of the Weasley brood.”

“Lady Minerva,” Frederick bowed. George followed suit.

“Ah, yes, the gentlemen of chaos.” Her ladyship’s smile seemed to be genuine. “Back to wreak havoc, are you?”

“Always and without fail, my lady,” George said proudly.

“This is our fifth brother,” Charlie pushed Ron forward, who suddenly looked a little red about the ears. “Ronald.”

“Sir Ronald,” Lady Mcgonagall offered her hand for him to kiss. “Charles told me you were here for training.”

“Yes, um, my lady,” Ron managed to squeak out.

“Good. We could always use another fine knight, assuming you are more in the vein of your eldest brothers than these two wastrels.”

Frederick and George did not look in the least put out by that description. If anything, they looked rather pleased with themselves.

“May I introduce our guest to you, your ladyship?” Charlie asked. “This is Harry, a close friend of the family. He also hopes to serve Eiselgot.”

Startled, Harry could do little more than blink in surprise as the most powerful woman in the kingdom turned her sharp eyes on him. At the last moment, he remembered to bow. When he straightened up, Lady Mcgonagall’s eyes were sparkling.

“Does he, indeed? You have very interesting colouring, Harry. Where are you from?”

“Godrian, your ladyship.”

“Ah, yes. I know it well. But your eyes, I think, are Krallish?”

Despite himself, Harry was surprised. “Yes, your ladyship. My mother was from Krall.”

“A remarkable place, I always thought. I spent many summers there in the old days.” Lady Mcgonagall inclined her head to him politely. “I wish you luck in your training, Harry of Godrian.”

“Thank you, your ladyship.”

Harry retreated while he still could, Ron walking quickly beside him.

“Bloody hell!” Ron said admiringly. “Did you see her? She could kill a man as soon as look at him!”

Harry grinned. “I expect she has.”

“Gracious, though, don’t you think? Did you hear what she said about me? Did you?” Ron’s eyes glowed with imagined futures. “She’ll have her eye on me from now on. She as good as offered me a position, didn’t she?”

Harry didn’t want to seem too pessimistic so he agreed that it had certainly sounded promising. The two friends, exhausted after this one social encounter, gravitated naturally towards the food. Harry had never seen such a spread. The great oak tables groaned under the weight of platters. There were dishes there that he had never even imagined: strange dark things; thick soups; something fried or sautéed that he could not identify.

“Jolly nice,” Ron declared, in what seemed to Harry to be the understatement of a century.

There was so much food that he did not know where to begin. It seemed almost sacrilegious to favour one dish over another. He was still deliberating when Charlie called Ron over, bearing him off to meet some old family acquaintance. Harry was too distracted by the food to feel bereft.

“Takes you by surprise, doesn’t it?” said a sharp little voice to his left.

Harry turned quickly to find himself face to face with a young lady. Her pointed face was smiling brightly at him, a non-event when caught between a splendid red dress and the impressive mounds of dusky dark curls that tumbled wildly about her head and down her spine. He took a step back automatically.

“It’s very impressive,” Harry said carefully.

“When I first came to Eiselgot, I’d never seen anything like it. I saw you talking to Lady Mcgonagall,” the young woman added. “I work for her, you see. My name is Hermione.”

“My lady,” Harry said automatically, with a bow.

Hermione’s eyes lit up. “It’s just Miss Hermione, usually, but I expect Hermione will do. What is your name?”

“Harry.” It did not seem particularly inspiring.

“Harry what?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Potter…” the girl hesitated. “Considering the linguistic roots, and looking at the colour of your skin, I’d say…Godrianic?”

Harry was starting to get a little tired of this obsession with his history. “Yes.”

“I’m from Lutoni,” Hermione confessed. “I only came to Eiselgot a few years ago.”

Harry relaxed a little. “I passed through Lutoni on my way here. Only a sea port, of course, but it seemed nice.”

“Oh, it is,” Hermione assured him. “But they have the silliest rules about education. The only way I could ever learn all that I need to learn is by finding employment in Eiselgot. Lady Mcgonagall keeps a group of scholars close: tacticians and archivists and the like. She gave me a place here. You came with Sir Charles Dragonheart?”

“Um, yes,” Harry said, wondering whether or not it would be impolite to eat whilst talking to a lady. “I’m staying with the family.”

“He’s a noble man,” Hermione said firmly. “I’m afraid I don’t know his brothers as well.”

“I could introduce you?” Harry offered, wondering why on earth she would care.

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” she said hastily, confirming his suspicions. “I was just interested. You’ll be trying out for a knight, then?”

“I’m training under Lord Wood.”

“I’ve met him. Honourable, but dedicated.”

Harry grinned despite himself. “You could say that.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

That stopped him short. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

She nodded and bit her lower lip with oversized teeth. Harry was at a loss. He felt vaguely that something was required of him, perhaps to continue the conversation or ask her to dance, but he wasn’t sure how to do any of those things.

“You’re new here,” Hermione announced, apparently making up her mind. “Here, let me help you out.”

She took him by the shoulders and spun him round. Harry turned unresistingly, slightly alarmed.

“There,” she pointed to a wiry woman in a dress like golden mail with her dark hair cut short in a way that was out of style for men, let alone a lady. “That’s Lady Nymphadora. She leads Lord Diggory’s knights. And next to her? That’s the young Lord Diggory, the heir. Cedric, his name is.”

Harry followed her pointing finger to a handsome young man with a square jaw and a flush of blonde hair, a picture-book prince in a gilded jacket. He seemed to be surrounded by ladies, all of them with a similar look of wide-eyed interest.

Hermione noticed where he was looking and sniffed disapprovingly. “They all want his attention. Some of them want to marry him, of course. He is going to be a very powerful man. Some of them just want to bed him.”

Harry’s face warmed at the mention of beds and he steered the topic to safer waters. “Who’s that?”

He indicated an elderly man with the longest, whitest beard he had ever seen. Hermione’s expression brightened. “That’s Dumbledore. He’s one of King Cornelius’s closest advisors. An incredible man. They say he’s a genius. And there! That’s Lord Malfoy.”

Harry turned again to see a gentleman in exquisitely-tailored clothes crossing the floor. He wore an expression of lofty superiority, one hand resting on the bejewelled pommel of his sword and his eyes focused on something in the distance far more important than anyone in the hall could possibly be. If Harry had not hated him on sight, he might have been impressed.

 There was a young man walking beside him, as pale as spilt milk. His silver hair brushed his shoulders and his clothes were the mirror image of Lord Malfoy’s. He turned flat grey eyes in their direction and Harry felt their gaze meet. The man’s lip curled in distaste and he moved on.

“That’s his son,” Hermione mumbled. “It’s…better not to get involved.”

“Ron hates him,” Harry remembered.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Weasleys,” Harry explained. “They didn’t speak highly of Lord Malfoy.”

“I’m not surprised. Their families have a very public feud. You shouldn’t let it get to you, though. Someone in your position can’t afford to pick and choose their patrons.”

Harry might have had something to say to that – something about honour or integrity or some other virtue – had he not been suddenly and permanently distracted. The parting of the crowds had brought into view, across the room, a vision of loveliness such as he had only dreamed of. Her inky hair piled above her head, escaping only to twine in delicate curls about her face. Her sky blue gown seemed fit for a goddess, delicate with pearls and lace. Even as Harry watched, she tilted her head back to laugh at a joke someone had told and the room seemed suddenly airless.

“Who is that?” Harry breathed, lost on the seas of wonder.

“Who?” Hermione frowned. “I don’t – oh. That’s Lady Cho.”

“Just a lady?” Harry shook his head wonderingly. “She should be a princess. She should be a goddess.”

“Oh, don’t be blasphemous,” Hermione snapped. “But she is very pretty, isn’t she? She’s Lord Chang’s only child.” Her eyes were full of pity. “They say he intends her for one of the six families. Nothing else will do.”

Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. “I’ll change his mind.”

Hermione actually laughed. “Are you a romantic or a fool?”

“Both, probably.” Harry tried to shake himself out of it but his eyes kept straying back to her perfect profile. “I didn’t know women like her existed.”

“A rare breed,” Hermione said snidely. “Oh, stop going over all moon-eyed like that. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

A blare of horns drowned out Hermione’s reply. Harry at last turned away from the vision across the room just as the whole party seemed to grind to a halt, a channel clearing through the crowds so naturally it seemed as though they were toys on a music box, dancing the same moves at the bidding of clockwork. The doors at the end of the hall opened wide and, with a fanfare and the rush of a draught, in walked the king.

  King Cornelius was not an unfamiliar face, even in Godrian. His profile was on coins, that plump chin and graceful nose, but never had Harry seen him rendered in anything better than silver. He was not a tall man but he moved like one, striding with the assurance that only comes from power. The mixed messages of his profile, the sagging jowls and double chin, the elegant nose and open blue eyes that must have dazzled in his youth, seemed to work in harmony. The fine cut of his clothes made something noteworthy out of the man’s stout, aging form.

 He would not have needed the crown. He would not even have needed the rings on his fingers or the gilt that trimmed his clothes. Cornelius walked like a king. He stood in power. It seemed to Harry that the man must have been marinated in it, left simmering and steeping for decades in the heady sweetness of total control, to ever reach such a total lack of self-consciousness, such a total surety of manner.

 Beside him, Hermione curtseyed low. Harry remembered to bow. King Cornelius brushed by with barely a glance, passing through the expectant party-goers as though he never saw them. He claimed his chair – not a throne, not officially, but he made it one just be sitting on it – and the doors closed. The band began to play. The whole room breathed out.

“That was him.” Harry tried to catch another glimpse through the crowds that had suddenly clustered. “That was the king.”

“Obviously. Did you think he wouldn’t be at his own party?”

“Have you met him?”

“Of course I’ve met him!” Hermione hesitated. “I’ve been in the same room as him plenty of times. He’s not particularly interested in archivists.”

“There you are, Harry!” Ron barged into him as he approached, grinning and cheerful. “Thought I’d lost you. Oh, hello. Who’s this?”

“This is Hermione,” Harry said, trying desperately to remember whether introductions amongst high society worked the same way as ordinary ones. “She works for Lady Mcgonagall. Hermione, this is Sir Ronald Weasley.”

“A pleasure.” Hermione made a shallow curtsey.

“Delighted,” Ron said promptly. “Love what you’ve done with your hair. Harry, seriously, there’s some people I need to introduce you to. Come on!”

Harry cast an apologetic glance at Hermione, who rolled her eyes. “It was nice meeting you, Harry.”

“Yeah. You too.”

Ron bore him away, dragging him around gathered groups and skirting the ever-expanding dance floor. Harry followed along obligingly. The hall was starting to get uncomfortably warm but nobody seemed inclined to remove their jackets. Harry wondered if it was against etiquette. Perhaps the nobility were just expected to sweat.

“Harry, this is Sir Neville.” Ron fetched up at last by a small group gathered in a corner. “He’s the Longbottom heir and he’s training with me.”

The plump young man shook Harry’s hand vigorously. “Ron says you’re quite talented.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Harry said awkwardly.

“This is Sir Owen,” Ron indicated a skinny youth with an unfortunate crop of acne, “his cousin, Sir Phelan,” a full-lipped and cherubic young man, “and, of course, Sir Peter. We’re all training together.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Harry bowed as formally as he could.

“And you.” Sir Peter shook his hand brusquely. “Ron’s told us lots about you. Commoner, are you? Good luck to you. We’re all on your side. Heard you helped him out with a spot of bother on the road. That’s the sort of fighting spirit we’re looking for!”

Harry had not encountered a great deal of jovial pomposity in his life and so settled for a friendly, noncommittal smile.

“What about us?” the young lady by Sir Peter’s side demanded. “Don’t we get an introduction?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Ron said hastily. “Harry, this is Lady Lily.”

The dark-haired young woman grinned at him and extended her hand. Harry kissed it dutifully, bowing low. Lady Lily looked delighted. She had a nice face, more vivacious than pretty, a riot of dark freckles and slightly crooked teeth. She cast her eye over him with such frank admiration that Harry felt hot around the collar.

“And this,” Ron’s tone took on a touch of reverence, “is Lady Lavender.”

Lady Lavender was more the classical beauty. Her golden hair and dark-toned skin were at odds, like some nymph from a legend, and her smile was reserved. When Harry bent to kiss her hand, the roses of her perfume filled his lungs. As he straightened, she relaxed her posture of propriety just enough to smile at him genuinely. Her cheek dimpled.

“Lady Lavender is the Mcgonagall heir,” Sir Phelan said, adoringly.

“Not necessarily,” Lady Lavender lowered her eyelashes modestly. “Nobody knows that for certain.”

“It ought to be you,” Sir Owen said loyally. “You’d do a fine job.”

“The Mcgonagall heir?” Harry interrupted this display of sycophancy without thinking. “You’re Lady Mcgonagall’s…daughter?”

Lady Lavender laughed, a startled sound. “No, of course not! She doesn’t have any of those. I’m some sort of distant cousin, we think. The family tree becomes quite a thicket when you start to look at it closely. But with the succession so uncertain, some people are kind enough to think that I will be the one to take her place.”

Harry tried to imagine this doe-eyed beauty in the Lady Minerva’s place. One could only imagine she would run a very different sort of household.

“The other option, of course, is some sort of nephew out in the sticks,” Lady Lily said cheerfully. “He has a lot of support from the traditionalists but we don’t think her ladyship likes him much.”

“Lily!” Lady Lavender looked shocked. “You shouldn’t say things like that to a stranger!”

“He’s not a stranger; we’ve been introduced.” Lady Lily winked. “Harry understands. He’s a man of the people.”

“You’ll have to forgive her,” Sir Peter said, puffing out his chest and giving Lady Lily a look that most people would have reserved for a small kitten tripping over a ball of yarn. “Lady Lily likes to speak her mind.”

“Aren’t I lucky that I have one to speak?” Lady Lily said sweetly.

Sir Peter did not appear to hear her. “Ron, what did you think of the new move old Regulus was showing us today? The footwork’s a nasty bit of work, don’t you think?”

The conversation rolled on as the young noblemen talked about their training and boasted about their skills. Lady Lavender listened politely, turning her gracious smile on each in turn. Harry felt his attention wandering. He scarcely noticed Lady Lily sidling up to him until she took his elbow and whispered in his ear.

“Once Sir Peter gets started on his own grandeur, he never stops. Save a damsel in distress and ask me to dance?”

Harry jumped, startled to find her so close. For a moment, he fumbled for a refusal but it seemed ruder to jilt her than it did to tread on her feet later. Besides, there was no denying that Lady Lily’s sparkling eyes were unaccountably pretty.

Harry cleared his throat. “Would you do me the honour of a dance, my lady?”

“Why, I’d be delighted, sir!” Lady Lily took his arm before he could offer it, steering him firmly away from the group. “So sorry to monopolise you like this but if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s Sir Peter talking about fighting. He’s not even very good at it.”

“The fighting or the talking?”

“Either.” Lady Lily grimaced. “The gods only know if he will ever improve. You do know how to dance, don’t you?”

Harry squared his shoulders and pulled her close, stepping out amongst the weaving couples. “I’ve been having lessons.”

She laughed. “How enterprising of you. So have I.”

Lady Lily’s lessons had clearly been far more extensive. She guided Harry around the dance floor with every appearance of ease, somehow managing to lead him whilst pretending to follow. It was all Harry could do to be grateful for Parvati’s lessons in footwork as he fought to keep up, and not to crush her delicate golden slippers.

“How do you know Lady Lavender?” He struck out for conversation. “Are you family?”

“Oh, definitely not! She far outranks me,” Lady Lily said cheerfully, twirling lightly before stepping neatly back into his arms. “I’m a Moon, you know. Well, you probably don’t. We have money, of a sort, but we don’t have status. Lavender and I grew up together, though. We’re friends.”

Harry nodded, attempting a fancy turn and just about managing to pull it off. Lady Lily nodded her approval. “You’ve got the hang of that. Those lessons of yours must be paying off.”

The band quickened the pace and Harry hastened to match, hoping desperately that everybody else on the dance floor knew where they were going. He was focusing too much on staying upright and in time to worry about who he might be about to collide with.

“It must be nice, the training,” Lady Lily chattered away, seemingly without the least care for the fact that they had only just met. “I wanted to be a knight once, you know. I even got one of the retainers to teach me to fire a bow. But my parents had opinions. It’s terrible isn’t it, how many opinions other people seem to have?”

Harry agreed that it was.

“They want me to be a lady. A court lady, not a knight. They think if I’m lucky enough to have befriended Lady Lavender, I shouldn’t waste that opportunity by going off to traipse through mud and hack at things with a cleaver.” Lady Lily sighed and shook her dark hair back, an unconscious gesture of dissatisfaction. “I shouldn’t like the mud, I’m sure, but the cleaver holds some appeal.”

“You’re far too clever just to sit around and look pretty.”

“Aren’t I just?” Lady Lily agreed, sounding pleased. “But, then again, I’m far too pretty not to sit around being looked at.”

Harry’s face flushed and he suddenly couldn’t think of a thing to say. Lady Lily caught his expression and laughed. She did a lot of that, laughing. It must be easy to be around someone so effortlessly entertained.

“I know, I know, it’s not seemly to say. But, really, I’ll think I’ll do enough being seemly when I marry Sir Peter to make up for all my lapses.”

Harry choked. “You’re going to marry Sir Peter?”

“Betrothed,” Lady Lily said mournfully. “It’s all there on paper. My only hope is to enjoy myself enough before the wedding to sustain myself through all those long years tethered to him. Of course, if I enjoy myself to the fullest degree, he might terminate the engagement himself.”

Harry tried to pretend he didn’t know what she meant. “Who arranged the betrothal?”

“Oh, parents,” she said airily. “I’m sure it all seemed perfectly sensible to them. How were they to know he would turn out such a pompous ass?”

“Maybe he’ll mellow with age?”

“I cling to that hope.”

The music ended. Lady Lily’s hands didn’t drop from Harry’s shoulders even as he went to step away.

“Champagne?” she said lightly.

Harry led her with as much gallantry as he could muster to the long tables, there to procure two glasses of what seemed to be more bubble than liquid. The fizzing on his tongue made him sneeze. Lady Lily grinned crookedly.

“Never tried champagne before?”

“Funnily enough, we don’t get it much out on the farmsteads.”

“I’ve never tried ale. Is it nice?”

“Not as nice as it sounds.”

“Neither’s this champagne.” She pulled a face. “Sour. Really, his majesty can be so cheap.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “Are you allowed to say that?”

“Absolutely not. Are you going to report me to the castle guards?”

Harry caught her dancing eyes and smiled despite himself. “I would never.”

Lady Lily kissed him. It came so completely out of nowhere that Harry was initially too shocked to respond. He stood dumbly as she pressed her lips against his, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders. After a second or two, however, his brain caught up with proceedings and he kissed her back. Such a short space of time passed like eternity, the pressure of their lips moving together, the flutter of her tongue against his teeth. A silver age of champagne-flavoured, highly confusing bliss before she drew back, smiling lopsidedly up at him.

“When one is doomed to marry Sir Peter, excitement must be taken where it can be found. Even from the lips of handsome common-blooded future knights.”

“My lady, I…”

“At this stage, you might as well call me Lily.”

“Lily, I…” Harry fumbled for words. “I didn’t think…”

Her smile dropped away, replaced by something guilty. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to make you –”

“It’s okay!” Harry said quickly. “It’s definitely okay, it’s just that…”

“I should have at least asked first,” Lily said decisively. “It won’t happen again.”

For a minute they stood there in acute embarrassment. Harry had no idea what to do next. It was tempting just to scoop her up in his arms and carry her away somewhere. He was certain she would let him. On the other hand, he expected there would be dangerous consequences for a man seducing somebody else’s betrothed at a royal ball, even with such blatant provocation.

“Sir Peter will murder me,” Harry said, at last.

“Not if he doesn’t find out,” Lily pointed out. “And he usually doesn’t. But I see your point. I’d hate to get in the way of your training. You’re going to make a wonderful knight.”

“Thank you.” Another pause. “It’s not that –”

“Don’t bother.” Lily’s quick crooked smile had returned. “I know how attractive I am, thank you. And if you ever need to pass the time, the offer’s open. Now, would you be so good as to get a lady another glass of this subpar champagne? The dance is calling us and I’ll need to be fortified with bubbles.”

Harry relaxed. “Now that, my lady, I can do.”

 

The party did not begin to end until the early hours of the morning. Harry stumbled home, a trifle more drunk than he had intended to be, with the Weasley crowd just as the sky began to touch blue with dawn. Charlie strode on ahead, singing loudly into the empty streets, ignoring any attempt to shush him.

“You had fun, Harry?” Ron said blearily, slinging one arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Your first castle party. Here’s to plenty more, eh?”

“I saw you dancing with Lady Lily,” Frederick said slyly. “That’s a dangerous game, young fella-me-lad.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Nothing happened.”

“Oho!” George tried to spin dramatically round to face him, miscalculated, and ended up doing a perfect pirouette. “A clear confession of guilt!”

“What? What did you do?” Ron grabbed at Harry’s face, holding it still while he searched it for guilt with unfocused eyes. “Lady Lily is Lady Lavender’s closest friend! She’s Sir Peter’s betrothed! You danced with her?”

“He did more than dance!” George crowed. “Look at his eyes! What was it, young Harry? A stolen kiss in a shadowy nook? Or something a little sweeter?”

“It was one kiss and I turned her down,” Harry said irritably. “I might be a commoner but I _am_ a gentleman.”

“A kiss!” Ron lamented to the skies, staggering away from Harry with rather more melodrama than the situation merited. “A kiss!”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Frederick clapped Harry so hard on the shoulder that he stumbled. “Known flirt, Lady Lily. Never been discrete. Only person who doesn’t know about her is the blasted Peter boy. Word is he can’t imagine why she would want anyone other than him so he just doesn’t see.”

“A kiss! A kiss!” Ron was still engaging in histrionics. “I take him to one party and he gets a kiss!”

“Oh, cool it, Ron, quieten down!” George grabbed at his brother, trying to shake him out of whatever strange mental hole he had gotten stuck in. “What’s one kiss?”

“What’s one kiss?” Ron blinked at him through bloodshot eyes. “It’s one more than I got, that’s what it bloody well is!”

“Well, that’s your own bad planning. If it’s kissing you want, there’s no sense doting on Lady Lavender! Never even look your way. Harry’s got the right idea,” Frederick added approvingly, half-hanging off Harry’s shoulders.

“I didn’t do anything!” Harry protested.

“Lured her in with your green eyes,” Frederick teased.

“Enticed her with your barbarian charms!” George crowed.

“Oh, lay off!” Harry ducked away but he was laughing. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Nonsense, my boy!” George patted him firmly on the top of his head. “You’ve made an excellent start. We’ll make a wastrel rogue out of you yet.”


	4. Straw Horse

Harry had nothing but regrets the next day as he staggered, sleep-deprived and feeling as though he’d just been trampled by a team of oxen, to the training field. His friends were waiting for him, looking unfairly well-rested and healthy. Parvati, when she saw him, raised her eyebrows so far they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“What happened to you?”

“St Mariam’s Day,” Harry croaked. “Up at the castle. Gods, I’m going to be sick.”

“You got invited to the castle?” Seamus said enviously. “You get all the luck. Why couldn’t I have ended up with some rich lord instead of this lump?”

“Hey now,” Dean elbowed him half-heartedly. “I saved your life.”

“You _helped_ ,” Seamus allowed.

“What’s it like, Harry?” Parvati asked eagerly. “Is it everything the stories say?”

“Everything and more. The food! You wouldn’t believe the food.” His stomach heaved. Perhaps it was better not to think about food.

“Alright, you lousy lot, listen up!” Lord Wood’s bellow cut through the morning peace and set Harry’s head to aching. “You’re finally ready to try some real fighting! Everybody, grab a sword – don’t worry, they’re blunt, nobody trusts you with the real thing yet.”

There was a mad scramble for the box at Lord Wood’s feet. Harry hung back, in no mood for hurrying. He was prepared to conserve every scrap of energy and so ended up being the last to pull a slightly dented lump of metal out of the pile. It was weighted like the real thing but an experimental poke found it as blunt as a walking stick. It would be better for bludgeoning than any serious sword work.

“Right then, have you all managed that simple task?” Lord Wood demanded. “Then it’s sparring time. No maiming! Do I make myself clear?”

Dean and Seamus had already gravitated towards one another so Harry flicked an enquiring glance to Parvati, who nodded. He breathed a sigh of relief. Given his current hungover state, the last thing he wanted was somebody wielding a weapon near his vital organs. At least he could trust Parvati not to hurt him too badly.

 His optimism was, however, short-lived. No sooner had everyone begun the familiar scramble to find partners than Lord Wood tugged a scrap of paper from his pocket and began reading out names. Dean was sent to spar with Millicent, Parvati ended up with Seamus, and Harry found himself assigned to Zabini.

  Though they had never spoken before, Harry had noticed him. It was hard not to. The young man was tall with almost excessively muscular shoulders. He had taken the time out of his habitual showing off to cast the occasional mocking smile at Harry’s pitiful attempts to learn footwork. His expression now as Harry approached was full of easy contempt.

“Morning, Harry,” he said lightly, swishing his sword through the air. “Ready to be beaten into the ground?”

Harry’s brain was too soft and poisoned for witty repartee. He settled for a grunt instead and hefted his sword into a better position.

“Whenever you’re ready!” Lord Wood called. “I want to see some proper fencing from you lot!”

Zabini did not hesitate. He brought his sword around in a blur of an arc and it was all Harry could do to block it before he lost an arm. The shock as the metal met nearly dislocated his shoulder. Zabini sneered and twisted his weapon away before striking, cobra-quick, for a second time.

  Harry lasted all of forty seconds, forty seconds of desperate defence and dodging, before his sword was ripped from his fingers and he ended up falling ungracefully onto his rear. Zabini laughed and twirled his sword lightly through his fingertips.

“Come on, Harry,” he teased. “It’s no fun if you let me win.”

With a snarl, Harry snatched up his sword and hauled himself to his feet. Zabini stepped neatly back into position, smiling and relaxed, waiting for him to make the first move. Harry feinted, dodged, and struck. Zabini was there to parry the blow without raising a drop of sweat. Harry tried to pull away but Zabini did something clever, a twisting motion that locked the hilts of their swords, and suddenly he had lost it again.

“Nice try. Still _much_ too slow,” Zabini drawled.

Harry grabbed the sword again and, this time, didn’t hesitate. He struck at once. Caught off guard, Zabini was forced to retreat a few paces before he regained control. This time was longer. The bout went on nearly a minute before Harry’s legs were kicked out from under him and he hit the dirt. Zabini rested the tip of his sword against Harry’s heaving chest, shaking his head.

“Really, Harry. What do they teach farm boys these days?”

Ignoring both Zabini and the ache in his head, Harry rolled away from him. Zabini laughed and stepped back, giving Harry time to rearm himself before they began again. This time, Harry was through with swordplay. The moment Zabini parried his attack, Harry rushed in closer and brought his knee up into Zabini’s stomach. For a few joyful seconds, Harry had the upper hand before Zabini jabbed an elbow deep into his solarplexus and sent him gasping. They grappled like schoolboys for a moment before Zabini unceremoniously hooked one arm around Harry’s knee and flung him with full force onto the ground.

 The air rushed out of Harry’s lungs and he lay, a beached fish, just long enough for Zabini to level his sword at him and declare himself victorious. Harry ignored him, concentrating on sucking some oxygen back inside. He wanted to vomit but that would be simply too humiliating.

“Giving up?” Zabini taunted.

Harry shoved the blunted sword away and crawled back onto his feet, staggering for a second before he regained his balance. He picked up his sword. Zabini smiled with genuine amusement, a look that lightened the weight of his formal, straight-edged features. He was ten years younger in an instant and suddenly, distractingly, handsome.

“You have tenacity, I’ll give you that.” He laughed. “When do you give up?”

“Never,” Harry growled, and lunged.

 

The morning wore on and the sun climbed higher in the sky. Sweat soaked through Harry’s clothing and he would have given the world to throw himself into the river. There was no conversation on the training field except Lord Wood’s loud voice, cutting through the clang of metal, the grunts and occasional cries of pain. Zabini won bout after bout, even as he tired and grew clumsy. Harry failed time and time again.

  The more the morning wore on, the more Zabini seemed to be enjoying himself. He laughed every time Harry stood up again, a bright-eyed laugh that sounded just a touch maniacal through the rasping of his breath. Harry managed to keep from throwing up but there were moments when he was half-blind through the pain of his pulsing headache.

“Right then, Harry!” Lord Wood marched over to them, looking distressingly well-rested and hydrated. “Blaise, how’s it going?”

Zabini’s eye twitched and his smile lost all sincerity. “I’m winning.”

Harry tried to muster up a response but found that he couldn’t. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He would gladly accept defeat for the chance to lie down for half an hour, and maybe a bucket of cold water thrown over his head.

“Show me,” Lord Wood commanded.

Holding in a groan, Harry heaved his sword into position and met Zabini’s eyes. They flickered with something vindictive that had not been there moments before. The laughing ease was gone. Now, something bordered on hatred. Zabini moved.

  The first ten seconds were agonising enough but Harry was getting the measure of Zabini’s style now, however little good it did him. He moved and blocked with feet graceful enough to meet with Parvati’s approval. Zabini pressed him harder, pushing closer.

“Come on now, Harry, try a little,” Lord Wood said impatiently. “He left himself open there. There’s no point just defending forever.”

Defending was all Harry felt capable of doing. The world was a blur and he had a sickening feeling that he might faint. Zabini swung his sword low and Harry was forced to dance backwards, losing ground. Zabini kept on moving, a blurring arc of attacks, a flurry of movement to set him off balance with a few perfect blows calculated to catch. Harry was going to lose. Worse, he was going to swoon like a maiden in the grips of hysteria and probably be thrown out of training for the failure he was.

  There were rules: rules he had been taught, and rules he had made for himself. Right then, none of them seemed to matter. A little magic could hardly hurt.

  Harry forced himself to keep defending, just enough, even as Zabini’s sword caught a glancing blow on his arm that made him want to scream. Nobody was paying attention to his face. He let his lips move. The great reservoir of power that he kept so carefully dammed rose to his call. His headache faded away as if a cool cloth had been lain on his forehead. His muscles found a final burst of strength.

  Harry stepped forward at last, pressing against Zabini’s onslaught, meeting him halfway. He dodged and dived. Zabini met him step for step but he was tiring now and Harry was fizzing, was alive. It was as though adrenalin had shot to every corner of his body. He could have climbed the tallest tower of the castle. He would certainly have regretted it afterwards but he could have done it, nonetheless.

  Zabini seemed to realise this. He moved in for the kill. Harry was ready for him. Their swords locked, for a moment their faces mere inches away, all of their strength holding each other steady as they pushed back. Harry curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth and let the hissing, eager words escape, below anyone else’s hearing. His throat filled with the taste of tin and Zabini’s sword twisted in his hands. Harry slashed wildly, took a desperate stab at the move Zabini had used against him earlier, and his opponent’s sword went skittering away.

“Bravo!” Lord Wood applauded. “Bravo, Harry! What a splendid finish!”

Harry was breathing so hard he thought he might somehow manage to vomit up his own lungs. His sword point wavered a fraction where it rested just before Zabini’s chest. It was only as the murmurings of approval and scattered clapping reached his ears that he realised half the training group had stopped to watch.

 He lowered his sword. Only then did he looked at Zabini. The young man’s anger seemed to have dissipated. He was staring at Harry wide-eyed, with a look of shock that made him deeply uncomfortable. But it didn’t matter. Nobody had seen what he had done. Tomorrow, the hangover would have passed and he would be able to fight fair, learn to be a true knight.

“Splendid work, both of you,” Lord Wood said approvingly. “Next time, Harry, don’t be so showy. There’s no sense in prolonging the fight if you have the means of finishing it. All that time not taking an opening was unnecessary.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry croaked.

“Carry on.”

Harry turned back to Zabini but his partner was gone.

 

“I know what you did.”

Harry looked up from the fountain, water running down his chin and splattering onto his shirt. His friends had already gone to enjoy their post-training drink. Harry had declined to join them. He had seen enough of alcohol for the time being. So it was that Zabini had found him alone, attempting to drown himself in his efforts at rehydration.

“What do you mean?”

Harry managed to dribble more water down himself in the process of replying. Zabini looked faintly disgusted but forbore to comment.

“I know what you did,” he repeated. “I know how you won that fight.”

Harry’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. Cold fingers took a firm hold of his spine. _Idiot, idiot,_ he thought desperately. _How could you be so stupid? Standing on your pride?_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he got out in between the rising drumbeats of panic.

“Yes, you do.” Zabini stepped closer to him. “Don’t try and deny it. It was obvious.”

“I just…must have got the hang of it,” Harry said awkwardly. “After all, you were getting tired and…and I’d got used to your style by then and…well, it’s only one fight, no hard feelings, let’s just –”

“Harry,” Zabini interrupted him. “I could taste it. Tin. In the air.”

Harry stopped short. That giveaway sign, the only guarantee, the sure-fire way to prove a sorcerer was at work. Magic left its traces in the air, sweet and metallic on the back of the throat. The taste of tin. Most people would never pick up on it but those who had trained, or those who had magic in their blood… Harry’s gaze snapped back to Zabini, who nodded shallowly.

“Let’s talk about this.”

Harry was hardly in a position to refuse. Zabini turned heel and stalked with a hunter’s grace down the cobbled street. Harry shambled after him, soaked from the fountain and dizzy with fear and relief. He followed as Zabini turned a corner and led him into the warmth of the stable. A horse lifted its head in interest but quietened down at Zabini’s shushing. Harry followed him down row after row of warhorses and pack ponies until at last Zabini flicked the latch on a stall and held it open.

“In there?” Harry blinked at him.

“In there,” Zabini insisted.

There was a mare inside, standing quietly chewing cud. She was not a princely beast but she had a fine build and it was evident that her chestnut coat had been brushed and tended to with loving care. She barely huffed in Harry’s direction but she pricked her ears in greeting as Zabini quickly shut them inside.

“Hello, girl,” he said, tugging gently at her forelock and pulling a slightly dusty lump from his pocket. “Look what I stole for you this morning. It’s sugar. Yes, that’s right. Only the best for my girl.”

“She’s yours?” Harry ventured.

“Excellent deduction skills,” Zabini answered. “Is it any wonder you’re trying for a soldier? Her name’s Nag. She brought me to Eiselgot.”

Harry was not sure he had heard correctly. “Nag?”

“I know,” Zabini sighed. “But that’s what her previous owner called her, the inconsiderate bastard, and now she won’t answer to anything else.”

With a final pat of Nag’s glossy neck, Zabini turned away from his precious horse to face Harry. Harry could do nothing more than stand uncomfortably, acutely aware of how untidy he looked post-training and half-drowned, and wondering where on earth Zabini had managed to steal sugar from.

“So, Harry,” Zabini said quietly. “Sorcery.”

Harry stepped back in surprise, bumping against the side of the stall. The word hung between them like a physical thing, spinning gently in the air.

“I’m not about to turn you in,” Zabini added, “if that’s what you’re worrying about. We have to take care of each other, don’t we?”

Harry swallowed down the anxious lump in his throat. “You too?”

By way of an answer, Zabini extended a hand, palm down. The loose straw began to stir and rose in a delicate spiral till it gathered in a ball against his fingers. He flipped his hand over and it reformed into a delicate woven horse, stamping and tossing its mane as it pranced over his palm. Harry’s mouth fell open. Never had he seen such delicate work, such intricacy and precision. The tin was there, a warning sign, but weak, easy to ignore. Zabini must be using hardly any power in his display.

“Control,” Zabini explained, reading Harry’s expression. With a flex of his fingers, the straw horse was no more, scattering in pieces to the stable floor. “Control trumps power every time.”

“Who _trained_ you?” Harry said hoarsely. “How long have you…?”

“My mother. When that didn’t end well, I became a mercenary.” Zabini grinned, light and reckless. “That’s why I’m so much better than you. At everything.”

“And now you want to be a knight?”

“Everyone needs ambitions.”

“You’ll make it.”

“I know.”

Harry looked from the wisps of straw that had just moments before been so alive, to the handsome smiling face of the sorcerer in front of him, to the straw, over and over again. In that moment, he had no idea whether his secret had halved or doubled.

“Does anyone know?” Zabini asked abruptly. “About you, I mean.”

Harry shook his head. “Nobody. Nobody still alive.”

Zabini did not seem to need clarification on that. “Bit of a risk, don’t you think? Using magic on the training field? Right under Lord Wood’s nose?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I noticed.” Zabini’s expression softened slightly. “You’re not half bad, you know. You need practice, and a lot of finesse, but you’ve got the basics down. The problem is your face. You’re telling me your moves before you even attempt them.”

“I am hungover,” Harry made a pitiful attempt at defending himself.

“Yes, you’re clearly an expert at making good life choices.” Zabini rolled his eyes but that easy smile was back, the one from when earlier, before Lord Wood had come to observe. “Well, for goodness sake, stop using magic. That’s alright in a real fight but not in their noble games. It’s far too risky with that sort of an audience.”

“You think I should use magic in a real fight?” Despite himself, Harry was surprised.

“Of course. I do all the time. When you’re life’s on the line, winning’s more important than playing fair, don’t you think? But not when the king’s closest are breathing down your neck.”

Harry had to concede he had a point. “Well, I was never a mercenary. I don’t have another way to win.”

“You’ve not made a bad start. I can help.”

“Help?”

“Teach,” Zabini translated. “Whatever else, I’m good at fighting. You have all the basic components. You just don’t know how to use them. You fight like it’s some kind of puzzle you’re trying to solve. It’s not. You should use the sword the same way you use your fists. You’re better hand-to-hand. You move then like you actually want to win. There shouldn’t be a difference.”

“They’re very different styles,” Harry protested mildly.

“They’ve got the same goal. Doesn’t matter what they give you to fight with. Your approach is always the same.” Zabini grinned, sudden and bright. “Hurt the other person, not yourself.”

Harry paused, momentarily glad that the stall wall was there for him to lean against. Zabini dazzled in the afternoon light, the dust motes forming a silver halo behind his head. For a brief instant, he felt curiously short of breath.

“Don’t look so worried,” Zabini said, misreading Harry’s expression completely. “Nobody’s going to find out anything. The secret’s easy to keep when you’ve got something else to do. Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Harry managed, dragging himself back into reality.

“There’s no training tomorrow,” Zabini said patiently. “Do you want to practice?”

“Yes.” Harry forced something resembling a realistic human smile onto his face. “Yes, good idea.”

“Alright then. I’ll see you at ten.” Zabini turned back to Nag. “You can go now. Your friends will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

Harry fled, his heart hammering in his chest. His world had been unceremoniously upended. _He was not alone._ The thought ran through his mind a dozen times a second as he hurried back down to the streets to the Weasley house. There was another sorcerer, one who knew what the struggle was, who knew the sweet siren call of power. Perhaps they could share what they knew. Perhaps Harry could train his magic alongside his swordsmanship.

  Zabini’s dark face, lit from within by that lightning smile, passed momentarily through his mind. Harry pushed it away. He couldn’t let his mind run away with him. There was such a thing as going too far.

 

The following morning, Harry joined the Weasley brothers for breakfast. Charlie had already left for duty but the twins were there, lounging and chewing on toast. Ron was busy frowning over tiny models of some kind.

“Morning, Harry!” He looked up with a grin. “There’s tea in the pot.”

Harry poured himself a generous mugful and settled down at the long table. “What are you doing?”

“This? It’s chess. You’ve never played.”

“Never even heard of it.” Harry leaned closer to get a better look at the tiny wooden figures on their chequered board. “What’s it for?”

“It’s a game. You have to defeat an opposing army.”

Harry examined the chessboard for a long time. “They don’t have weapons,” he said, at last.

Ron snorted. “You don’t fight the army by beating it to pieces! It’s a tactics game. Each of the pieces can move a certain way, and in the end you capture the enemy’s king. That’s victory. I’ll teach you. See, this one if the knight, like us, and he can –”

“Sorry, Ron,” Harry cut him off, apologetically. “Another time. I’m expected at the training fields.”

“You are?” Ron looked crestfallen. “Why?”

“Putting in extra practice?” Frederick asked. “Or undergoing punishment?”

“Practice,” Harry explained. “With some of the others. We’ve started sparring now. Some – some of them need the work.”

“Oh. Okay then.” Ron hunched a little further over his game. “Later, maybe?”

“Absolutely.” Harry snatched a slice of toast and headed for the door. “Later.”

  Zabini was already waiting on the training field, in shirtsleeves and a leather waistcoat drawn so tight it bordered on corsetry. He was practicing by himself, with a sword that was clearly not one of Lord Wood’s dented offerings. He span like a dancer, silver slashing through the sky. His footsteps were soundless. Harry stopped for a moment just to admire him.

“You made it then.” Zabini came to a standstill, almost smiling. “Take that jacket off and put this on.”

He tossed something to Harry, who caught it instinctively. It was surprisingly heavy. He turned over the supple leather in his hands, examining the lacings, and raised a doubting eyebrow at Zabini.

“It’ll keep me from breaking your ribs,” the former mercenary explained. “You’re going to be learning my way today. None of that ham-fisted nonsense for common soldiers.”

“You were a common soldier,” Harry grumbled, struggling into the waistcoat’s tight confines. “The commonest, in fact.”

Zabini looked irritated. “I didn’t learn to fight like one. No, what do you think you’re doing? You’ll never get anywhere if you can’t even put on your own armour.”

“This isn’t armour,” Harry grumbled, letting the complex lacings of the waistcoat drop. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Where did you even learn to fight?”

“Krall.”

The silence hung uncomfortably between them for a moment. That, at least, answered the question of why he became a mercenary. There was little left to do in Krall except fight or die. Still, every second he was in Eiselgot must make old wounds sting.

“Here.” Zabini sheathed his sword and strode over, tugging the lacings tight enough to make Harry hiss in surprise. “It’s just a simple knot. Up, and around, and then loop it through…”

Harry tried not to breathe as Zabini’s long fingers deftly threaded the cord and cinched the waistcoat tight. When he was released, the leather hugged him like a second skin, just tight enough to be confining.

“Learn to get used to it,” Zabini caught his expression. “Full armour will be much worse.”

Harry picked up the sword Zabini offered him. It was lighter and sharper than the kind he was used to, built for dexterity rather than brute force. It was not of Eiselgot make. It made a delicate tearing sound as he slashed it experimentally through the air.

“Now, I’m going to attack you. I just want you to block me.”

“Is that all?” Harry tried not to let his apprehension show.

“That’s all.”

Zabini brought his sword around at a leisurely pace and Harry blocked it easily. He drew back and attacked again, with all the urgency of a bumble bee on a sunny afternoon.

“Are you teasing me?”

“I need to see what you’re doing,” Zabini explained, “and so do you. Speed comes later. You need the motion first. You need to be smooth and sure. Everything else will come from that.”

Harry parried the next blow, and the next. They stepped in circles around the training field, a tortuously slow waltz, until Harry was bored of the whole thing and his forearm was starting to ache with the effort.

“Stop looking at my hands,” Zabini said irritably. “Watch my face. You’ll never be able to keep your eyes on what my sword is doing when I move full speed so get used to watching.”

Harry tried his best. Zabini quickened the pace. Harry met him. Their little dance picked up speed. The twists and turns grew faster. Harry tried to keep his gaze on Zabini’s face. It was hard when doing so meant meeting his eyes directly. Something about the frankness of Zabini’s observation made Harry feel unsettled.

“Easy does it,” Zabini cautioned, as Harry tried to move too swiftly and nearly fumbled the parry. “Don’t rush things. Just there and, good! That’s it. What are your feet doing?”

“Turning,” Harry grumbled.

“You call that turning? You know you can put one foot _behind_ the other, don’t you?”

“What exactly did I need protection from if this is all we’re doing?”

Zabini grinned. “Oh, that’s for the next part. Follow me here. I’m going to show you Castleman’s Defence.”

It was one of the most basic moves in any swordsman’s repertoire, a simple pattern of movements designed to disrupt the flow of your opponent’s attack and break his control. Lord Wood had demonstrated it three times and Harry still got it wrong.

“Here – no, up a bit – that’s it! Round, step, to the left, step, twist, there!”

Harry nearly broke his fingers trying to hold onto his sword.

“Now you try.”

Harry tried. Over and over again, he tried. On the tenth attempt, Zabini told him he’d got it right. On the thirtieth attempt, Harry ventured that maybe he was good enough by now. On the sixtieth attempt, when Harry sent Zabini’s sword out of his hand and dropping to the dust, his volunteer teacher finally let up.

“Not bad,” he said amiably. “You’re getting there.”

“Getting there?” Harry said indignantly. “That was perfect!”

Zabini laughed. “Then you won’t mind trying something a little faster?” He moved before Harry had time to think and his sword caught a glancing blow across Harry’s ribs. “First rule: always pay attention, no matter where you are, no matter what you’re doing. Expect to be attacked.”

This time, their swords met. Harry tried to parry each blow as he had done before but they were raining faster now, a veritable storm. He missed one and it caught a scratch on his arm. He regained control for a minute, only to lose another and get a sharp jab in the ribs for his efforts. Zabini’s sword twirled effortlessly in his hands, slicing and slashing with a grace Harry could not hope to match. It was all he could do to keep up. Zabini’s pace was relentless.

 Harry tried his luck and went for Castleman’s. He fumbled it and Zabini avoided him easily, bringing his sword back around to whack the flat of the blade against Harry’s face.

“Hey!”

“Pay attention. Concentrate.”

“I can’t!” Harry stopped where he was and Zabini sliced at his ribs, the waistcoat saving him from having his entrails spilled. “Stop that, I can’t! I can’t do it when you go that fast!”

“But you’re going to. You’ve practiced it enough times. You know how you’re supposed to move. Your problem,” he added, “is that you keep thinking.”

“What? Of course I’m thinking.”

“No. This isn’t about thoughts or the mind or the intellect. Stop thinking. _Move_.” His sword came round in a vicious swipe. “Get out of your head. _Act_.” He caught Harry a glancing blow on the shoulder. “You are your body. Stop acting like it’s some instrument you’ve got to learn and just move. _Fight_.”

Harry did his best but he never once managed a passable Castleman’s, not at Zabini’s punishing pace. When at last he was granted a break, he flung himself to the ground in frustration, fighting a childish urge to scream and stamp his foot. Zabini, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned.

“You’re getting better. Your problem is that you’re self-conscious.”

“I’m not self-conscious,” Harry grumbled. “I just don’t like failure.”

“Nobody does. But you’re going to fail if you carry on as you are. The thing is…the thing about fighting…you don’t need your brain for it. That’s why you do the moves over and over in training. That’s why you get them beaten into you, till you’re bruised and bleeding and can barely breathe. You shouldn’t have to consider. You should never have to hesitate. If you’re thinking about what you’re doing, you’re doing it wrong. What we’re doing here is training instincts into you, ones that will override all the self-preservation and the natural cowardliness of human nature. You know, I’ve seen men carry on fighting all but unconscious? Their brains had given out on them but their bodies still knew what to do. That’s the sign of a true fighter. That’s when you know you’ve got it. Your mind is irrelevant. It should be written indelibly in every part of your body, from your fingertips to the roots of your hair.”

Zabini lit up when he spoke, with simple and unguarded passion. Harry found himself believing it despite all his deep desires to give up and go cry in a hole somewhere. His body ached with bruises, sang ugly harmonies of pain, but Zabini made that suffering sound, if not enjoyable, then at least worthwhile.

“The way you fight…it’s not the way they train at Eiselgot, is it?”

“I learned the old Krallish style first,” Zabini admitted. “I like it better. It suits me more. But at the end of the day, you do whatever gets you out alive.”

“Why did you leave the mercenaries? You have your swords, your horse…you must have been doing well for yourself.”

Zabini shrugged laconically. “I needed something new. You get stuck as a mercenary – fight a bandit, fight a baron, fight a bear. It doesn’t really matter. You can’t move forward. I have ambitions. To achieve them, I need Eiselgot.”

The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could think to stop them. “Have you ever thought about practicing sorcery? I mean, legitimately?”

A strange look crossed Zabini’s face and he tucked his chin a little closer to his chest. “No. There’s no such thing as legitimate sorcery anymore. It all sees you dead. On your feet, Harry. We’ve got training to do.”

Harry cursed under his breath but dragged himself onto his feet anyway. Zabini made the first move and the same aching, repetitive dance began.


End file.
